


That Which We Call

by AllegoriesInMediasRes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Battle of Hogwarts, Canon, Deathly Hallows, Humor, No pairings - Freeform, Oneshot, Slightly funny mixed with good deal of angst, Takes place during Battle of Hogwarts, missing moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 05:04:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4774625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/pseuds/AllegoriesInMediasRes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Voldemort waits for Snape in the Shrieking Shack, his thoughts wander to how history will remember him. Oneshot. No pairings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Which We Call

Voldemort knew he was going to die.

Such a simple thought, yet it was one that made the blood in his veins freeze and tore at every fibre of his being. He was Lord Voldemort, the soon-to-be Conqueror of Death. He was immune to the ignominy of death, above such petty human weakness. Yet despite everything, despite all his safeguards, he could feel his grasp to life slowly, slowly slipping away.

Deep down he knew that there was a very real possibility he might not live to see daybreak, but that did not mean he was going to die without a fight. Voldemort gazed out across the lake across which ripples undulated in the dark, hearing the water lapping softly. Snape was coming, which meant that the Elder Wand would soon be his. He would take what was rightfully his, and become the Master of Death for once and for all. There was no need to be so fearful.

Yet as he stared out across the water, the one emotion that filled him up above all else was _anger_. Anger at how posterity would remember him. He didn’t care anymore about whether they remembered him as the darkest wizard ever to live or as the wizard who strove to restore natural order to the wizarding world, who dared to seek out power that no wizard who had ever dreamed of and ventured further down the path to immortality than any other wizard ever had. He didn’t care anymore whether all the hard work he had put into restoring Salazar Slytherin’s legacy would last beyond his death. All he could think about was how no one would ever remember the one aspect that he had worked so painstakingly on.

His name.

His true name, not the pathetic Muggle one that his father had given him. _I am Lord Voldemort_ \-- the name that had had such powerful wizards quaking in their boots at the mere mention of it, that had inspired so much terror in men’s hearts that he had been able to Taboo it! With the exception of foolish men like Dumbledore, he thought bitterly, his old resentment flaring up but he quickly set it aside.

His name would lose its power. Perhaps one day, years from now, there would come a time when a person could say it without anyone blinking an eye. It would be a household name, written in history textbooks and repeated by and besmirched by scores of worthless tongues, but that wasn’t what bothered him most.

No, the aspect that would be lost to time was an inconsequential one at best, but one that held more significance than anyone could possibly know.

The silent _t_.

The silent _t_ , that made it clear the name was French and showed its true meaning -- _Vol de mort_ , flight from death, his life’s sole ambition. The name he had spent hours poring over in the school library, arranging and rearranging letters until they fit together to make a coherent whole. The name that had held such symbolic meaning.

An ancient Muggle playwright had once said that a rose would retain its fragrance, no matter what name was applied to it. Such typical foolish sentimentality of Muggles, Voldemort thought contemptuously. How could such mean creatures ever grasp such nuances of meaning, ever understand such delicate distinctions? But for all the power that Voldemort wielded, he could not change the course of collective memory.

Humans, wizard and Muggle alike, would remember what they chose to remember, and his name was no exception.

One day, maybe today or maybe in a hundred years, they would speak his name without fear. So much would be forgotten, fallen through the crevices of remembrance, both significant and trivial, but Voldemort knew that no lapse of memory would hurt as long and as hard as did the fact that they would forget his true name.

But dwelling on such matters would only cause him undue agony, he reflected. It would not do to spend these precious moments fretting about the future. He cleared his mind of all stray emotions, as only an accomplished Occlumens could, and channeled his mental energy toward waiting for Snape and what he must do. He would devote every scrap of cunning and energy he had left to living up to his name-- Lord Voldemort, the Evader of Death.

Even if no one would ever remember it.

**Author's Note:**

> A very quickly done oneshot, in regards to a supposedly earth-shattering rumor that has set the internet on fire... :)
> 
> Probably OOC at places, so if you have any feedback to offer, please post a review!
> 
> ~Ally


End file.
